by Barton, Anne
“Good Lord, gel,” she said with obvious distaste. “You needn’t pine over him so. If Foxburn said he’d be here, he will. Something tells me that nothing could keep him away from this particular ball.” Her gaze traveled the length of Daphne’s gown, all the way down to her slippers.
To Anabelle, she said, “This is one of yours?” She inclined her head toward the golden dress.
Anabelle smiled mysteriously.
“It’s good. Very good.” The viscountess pursed her lips as if she were considering the possibility of hiring the duchess to make a gown for her. If anyone would have the gall to ask, it would be Lady Bonneville. “Come, Marion. Let’s leave the young folk to their own devices. They’ll have more fun without us, and we shall have infinitely more fun without them.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” Mama waffled. But she really had no choice. Lady Bonneville was quite adamant.
The orchestra began to play.
Guests continued to file in. Mr. Averill arrived, which was a great relief to Olivia and also to Daphne and Rose, who no longer had to endure Olivia’s constant angst over his whereabouts.
And still, there was no sign of Ben.
Daphne danced with Lord Biltmore and Mr. Edland.
She deftly avoided Miss Starling on the way to the ladies’ retiring room and congratulated herself on that small triumph. The last thing she needed this evening was an ugly confrontation with the beautiful miss.
Once, the sight of a fair-haired, heavy-set man made her suck in her breath. From the back he looked exactly like Mr. Hallows, but he turned out to be a portly, older gent. It may have been too much to hope that Mr. Hallows would stay away from the ball, but she hoped nonetheless. She comforted herself with the knowledge that his brutish behavior wouldn’t be tolerated here. As long as she was not alone with him, she would be safe. Physically, at least.
Time continued to slip away. She was acutely aware of the grandfather clock behind the refreshment tables. It should have been difficult to hear the chimes over the conversation and music, but her ears seemed perfectly attuned to their mournful sound.
With each minute that passed, the chances of Ben showing grew slighter.
And the hour of her ruin drew closer.
By a quarter to midnight, the orchestra ceased their playing, and no one made any pretense of small talk. The crowd converged around the platform holding the easel and painting. Voices hushed and anticipation filled the air like the smoke from the beeswax candles in the chandeliers overhead.
This very moment was the one she’d dreaded for weeks. For longer, actually. She’d known that a day of reckoning would come—she may not have known when or where, but she had known it was inevitable.
She took deep, even breaths and marveled at the steadiness of her hands. Mama sat on the far side of the room with Lady Bonneville, listening raptly while the viscountess appeared to expound on some topic with great vehemence. She waved her lorgnette for added emphasis.
Anabelle stood on the edge of the crowd, with Owen at her side. She seemed to view the unveiling with some distaste, like she hated to stand by and watch while some poor chit was thrown to the lions. And yet, there was no way she could not watch. Daphne caught her sister’s eye and held it as she smiled. She wanted to apologize to Anabelle for what was about to happen, but mostly she wanted to let her know that she didn’t need to worry about her anymore.
No matter what happened, she would be all right. Heartbroken, but all right.
As though she could read Daphne’s thoughts, Anabelle opened her mouth and started forward.
Oh no. She couldn’t let Belle talk her out of what she must do. She waved her away and began working her way to the front of the crowd.
Olivia, who had been standing next to her, must have suddenly realized that she’d left. “Daph!” she called. Daphne looked back as Olivia began to shoulder her way through the solid ring of spectators. Her unladylike outburst caused a couple of nearby matrons to scowl. Rose reached out and placed a hand on Olivia’s arm—as if she sensed Daphne needed to do this alone.
And she did. The farther she was from her family, the better. Her shame should not be theirs.
It took several minutes and all the feminine charm she possessed to make her way to the front of the crowd, directly in front of the easel. A few guests looked at her curiously, then shrugged. Everyone was here for the same reason. To witness the ruin of the English Beauty.
She’d barely caught her breath when the grandfather clock began bonging.
At last, the wait was over.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Focal Point: (1) The element of a painting that draws the viewer’s eye; the primary subject. (2) An object, such as a scandalous portrait, that has captured both the attention and fascination of the ton.
Daphne felt a pang in her chest. Ben had not shown after all.
That didn’t change things, however. When it came right down to it, she wasn’t doing this for him.
She was doing it for herself.
Lord Foley sauntered into the ballroom through a side door, hard to miss in his bright green coat. Hallows trailed behind him.
Daphne gulped. She’d wanted this unveiling to happen on her own terms, but so many aspects of the evening were beyond her control. She just had to proceed and hope that she had the opportunity to say her piece.
Lord Foley climbed onto the platform. Hallows eyed the makeshift structure doubtfully and kept his large feet planted on the floor in front of it.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” Lord Foley began. “At last, the time has arrived. For weeks you have been wondering about the identity of the English Beauty, as have I. The only one who has known, up until now, is my young friend, Mr. Hallows.” He presented the brute with a flourish. Hallows shifted his weight nervously. Although he wore a russet-colored jacket and clean white cravat, he sweated, clearly uncomfortable in the formal setting.
Lord Foley droned on. “His father commissioned this painting and one other—whose whereabouts are unknown. I am assured that while this portrait is an unparalleled work of art, it is also quite scandalous.”
Several gasps could be heard throughout the ballroom. As if they didn’t already know. Really, the hypocrisy of some people bordered on ridiculous.
“For this reason,” Lord Foley continued, “I would advise ladies to turn their heads before the painting is revealed. The last thing I would wish to do is offend any of my esteemed guests.”
Several ladies snapped their fans open and shielded their faces from the impending assault on their delicate sensibilities. Most continued to peer over the tops.
“I am pleased to inform you that Mr. Hallows has agreed to sell this masterpiece to the highest bidder. While I have not yet laid eyes upon it myself, I am assured that it would be the crown jewel of any collection. If the young woman in the portrait is half as lovely as Mr. Hallows says she is, I may end up bidding on it myself.” Lord Foley paused while several of the gentlemen chuckled at the irony. Daphne barely refrained from rolling her eyes.
“Before I unveil our scandalous miss, there is one more detail that I must impart. The English Beauty is said to be a member of the ton, and it is entirely possible that she is here tonight. I daresay, there are few souls who aren’t.” He paused and soaked up the smattering of laughter.
Daphne, who had been staring at the toes of her slippers, looked up and found Mr. Hallows looking directly at her, a triumphant leer on his face. She raised her chin and stared back. He might think he held all the cards—she supposed he did, for now. But in a few minutes, whatever power he held over her would be gone. She was done with hiding. Done with shame.
“Well, then,” Lord Foley announced, “I shan’t keep you in suspense any longer.” He turned toward the easel and reached for the red satin.
“Wait.” Daphne’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Lord Foley froze. The ladies and gentlemen who’d been crowded against her a moment before stepped back as though they wanted to
distance themselves from whatever spectacle was about to occur. Probably a prudent decision on their parts.
Lord Foley narrowed his eyes and leaned forward like Anabelle did when she wasn’t wearing spectacles. “Miss Honeycote? This is not an opportune time for conversation. The painting is about to be revealed.”
“I know.” Her voice cracked on the second word, so she tried again. Louder. “I know. I have something to say about it. Something I believe your guests will find rather interesting.”
“By all means, then.” Lord Foley waved her closer, a sour look on his face. He didn’t seem pleased about sharing the spotlight.
Hallows bristled at the interruption. Out of one side of his mouth he said, “Why are you letting her up there?”
Lord Foley scowled at him. “Miss Honeycote wishes to say something. We’ll get to the auction momentarily.”
“You shouldn’t trust her,” Hallows said, none too softly. Several guests gasped.
“That is a bold assertion.” Lord Foley’s position on the platform allowed him to look down his nose at Hallows even though the man was nearly a head taller. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Hallows pointed a sausage-like finger at Daphne. “She’s the one in the painting.”
Daphne swallowed as, all around her, mouths gaped wide. “Mr. Hallows speaks the truth,” she said.
Toward the back of the gathering, an older gentleman called, “What did she say?”
She cleared her throat and spoke in a voice that carried throughout the room. “I posed for the painting. And one other. They’re not exactly lewd”—she paused and cast a nervous glance at Lady Bonneville—“although I suppose that would depend on one’s definition of the word.”
“If it’s not lewd,” Hallows interjected, “what would you call it?”
It was a fair question. “Daring… and possibly improper. Scandalous in some circles… such as this one.”
On the far side of the room, Daphne spied Owen attempting to maneuver his way toward her. He no doubt intended to come to her aid—a gallant gesture, and she adored him for it, but she didn’t need to be rescued. Perhaps it was more accurate to say she didn’t wish to be rescued. When he looked up, she caught his eye, smiled, and gave a firm shake of her head. He went still and nodded in understanding. She loved him even more for that.
“The painting belongs to Lord Charlton, Mr. Hallows’s father,” she said.
“It’s mine. My father gave it to me. I can do what I like with it.” Hallows took a menacing step toward her but then retreated as if he’d belatedly remembered that she wasn’t a waitress in a tavern but a lady in a ballroom.
“I am not here to challenge your right to sell the portrait. I only want to explain myself before it is revealed.” The crowd was so silent that she could hear her own breathing. She swallowed and closed her eyes briefly—just long enough to remember the three points she needed to make.
“The first thing you must know is that no one in my family—not my dear mother nor my lovely sister—knew anything about this painting. Neither did any of my friends, save the artist. The blame lies entirely with me. So, if anyone here objects to my behavior—and I suspect many of you will—please, don’t censure my family or friends. I posed for the portrait on my own and was fully aware of the risk to my reputation.”
A few of the older matrons pursed their lips. Daphne scanned the room and found Mama near the potted palms looking sad and confused. Lady Bonneville wrapped a plump arm around her shoulder and stared back at Daphne with a bemused expression. Clearly, it was going to take a bit more than her mortifying confession to impress the viscountess.
Well. Daphne wasn’t done yet.
“The second thing I need to say is that posing for the paintings was my choice. I wasn’t forced in any way. I had my reasons, of course, and while they aren’t relevant, I freely admit that I’d sacrifice my good name one thousand times over if it would save someone I cared about. You may be shocked to learn that I’m not especially embarrassed about my behavior. I suppose some of you will label me a tart or a lightskirt or… worse. However, I would rather be all of those things than a mean-spirited person—that is, someone who takes pleasure at the misfortune of others.” Daphne endeavored not to stare at Miss Starling but couldn’t help but notice that her face had turned a ghastly shade of red. “I am not ashamed of the paintings themselves. My only regret is that my actions may end up causing my loved ones pain and humiliation. For that, I’m truly sorry.”
Daphne locked eyes with Belle. Her sister looked utterly serene and… proud. That alone gave her the strength to continue.
Because the hardest part was still to come.
She paused, trying to sort through her mishmash of emotions and somehow arrange words into sentences that would begin to explain them.
“She’s stalling,” Hallows muttered to Lord Foley. “How long are you going to let her go on?”
“For as long as she wishes.” Lord Foley’s tone was icy. After issuing Hallows a scathing glare, he nodded at her encouragingly.
She could do this. She would pretend that Ben was there, challenging her to finish what she’d started. She drew in a long, deep breath of air. “The last thing I must confess is that this experience, although painful at times, taught me important lessons. A friend helped me to see that it’s better to do the right thing than to give the appearance of doing the right thing. And he showed me that I cannot run from pain or other unpleasant facts of life. Not for long, anyway. No matter what lies in store for me, I will be forever grateful to him.”
Hallows snorted impatiently. “Is that all?”
Lord Foley stepped between him and Daphne. “Miss Honeycote, when I agreed to let Mr. Hallows auction off his painting—or rather his father’s painting—I had no inkling of the circumstances.” He cast a nervous glance at her brother-in-law, Owen, who looked ready to throttle someone. Anyone. Lord Foley loosened his cravat with an index finger. “All things considered, I think it best to postpone the sale of the portrait.”
“I will leave that decision to you and Mr. Hallows,” Daphne said, “but with regards to the painting, I must insist that it be revealed. Tonight.”
Before she could lose her nerve, she reached over, grabbed a fistful of red silk, and snatched the cover off the painting. It whooshed through the air, snapping like a whip, before it hovered momentarily and floated to the ground, billowing around her feet.
It was done.
And it could never be undone.
The faces before her were an odd mix—powdered, wrinkled, and spectacled. But they all stared raptly at the painting behind her.
She held her chin high, refusing to cower under their disapproval… which would surely manifest itself once they got over the shock of seeing her in a nightgown that was nearly transparent. Although curious to see her image, she dared not turn and look at the painting. If she did, she was sure to blush or blabber or burst into tears.
“What the devil did you do to it?” Hallows roughly grabbed the frame on both sides and turned the entire easel toward him for a better look. “It’s ruined!”
Daphne blinked. Odd. Unless she was mistaken, Hallows was speaking to her. And beneath his anger there was a hint of fear. As if she were some sort of sorceress who could ruin a painting from afar. “I don’t understand.”
Lord Foley pried Hallows’s hands off the gilded frame and repositioned the easel so it faced the crowd.
And Daphne looked.
The portrait was much as she remembered. She stood before a looking glass, a pensive expression on her face. However, there was one significant difference. Instead of the filmy nightgown, she wore a golden ball gown. An exact replica of the one she was currently wearing. The artist had even captured the distinctly unique embroidery around the hem.
She shook her head, trying to reconcile her memories with the painting standing before her. This was the first night she’d worn the dress. And Thomas had painted it well over a year ago. How w
as it possible?
Lady Bonneville rose from her throne—er, chair—and walked through the crowd like a swan gliding through still water. She stood directly before the platform, which she eyed with undisguised animosity, and held out a gloved arm so that Lord Foley could help her up. Once she’d conquered the step and caught her breath, she raised her lorgnette. Slowly. And examined the painting for a full minute.
It was understood, of course, that the viscountess would take all the time she needed to inspect the portrait and that every other soul in the room would patiently wait for her verdict.
But Daphne’s mind reeled. The dress was new. The painting was old. Someone had added to it. And she could guess who.
Ben.
Well, not him, per se, because she didn’t think painting was among his talents. But there was little doubt that he was the person behind it. He’d found a way to save her from ruin.
His plan almost worked, too.
It was a pity that she couldn’t turn back the hands of the grandfather clock to before the rather incriminating monologue she’d just recited.
Lady Bonneville turned with the grace of a woman half her age and cleared her throat with the authority of a woman exactly her age. “This portrait,” she proclaimed, “is quite lovely. While I cannot pretend to approve of the indelicate nature of Miss Honeycote’s gaze”—her nostrils flared slightly as she motioned to Daphne—“I do not think it will be necessary to exile her. Yet.” With that, the viscountess held out her arms and waited for Lord Foley and Owen to escort her back to the potted palms and the comfort of her red tufted footstool.
“You destroyed it,” Hallows accused. “To save your reputation. You had no right to—”
Daphne took a step back and would have tumbled off the platform had she not been swept up in a pair of strong arms.
Ben set her on the floor and she spun around to face him. His casual smile and icy blue eyes made her knees go weak.